


Wrong, Wrong, Wrong

by TechnoXenoHolic



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Black Shadow Survives AU, Blood and Gore, Blue Bacchus is an MTO, Decepticon Justice Division Implied, I'm Sorry, M/M, Major Character Injury, Panic Attacks, i actually spell dezsarus' name the oldie way, kin memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnoXenoHolic/pseuds/TechnoXenoHolic
Summary: Black Shadow survived... but only just barely.





	Wrong, Wrong, Wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andstarswillscream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andstarswillscream/gifts).



> in case you missed the tags: injury/gore warning!!
> 
> i'm so sorry but i needed to write this to get it out of my brain

Blue Bacchus thought he knew what fear was.

He had been so utterly, indescribably wrong.

Nothing could possibly have prepared him for the sight of Black Shadow crashing in front of him on the landing strip—plating singed, limbs torn asunder, ailerons twisted, wings gouged. A mangled wreck. He hit the ground and just _smashed,_ shattered out of his altmode (and what a _mockery_ of the usually perfect winged form he was now). There were pieces of him missing. Way too many pieces. Some snapped off in his… landing.

What once was a gorgeous expanse of shining metal had been replaced with a warped, slag-pocked catastrophe. Black Shadow—beautiful, invincible, unstoppable Black Shadow—was _wounded,_ so badly that he was leaking oil and coolant, energon and hydraulic fluid, and it was sticking and _burning,_ nearly boiling in the gaping, charred holes marring so much of his frame (space travel was so _cruel_ to bots needing to cool down, as insulated by empty vacuum as it was).

He was _dying._

Blue Bacchus stared. The hydraulic fluid in his lines was ice. Solid. Disbelieving. His fuel tanks revolted so violently that his very intake shut down and sealed off to keep him from purging his fuel down to the reserves.

Black Shadow’s hand twitched. He struggled to raise his helm and croaked something that might have been _“Blue”._

“Primus,” Bacchus choked, and then in an instant he fell to his knees before his battered conjunx. “Shady— _frell—”_

He didn’t know what to do.

Shadow was hurt, worse than _Blue_ had ever been and certainly far worse than _Shadow_ ever had, and Blue Bacchus didn’t know what to do. Black Shadow was always the one to carry _him_ off the battlefield, often scorched and bleeding, sometimes shaking and missing a rotor or two, but _he_ never— _Black Shadow_ never—

Blue’s hands shook. What was he supposed to do, Shadow couldn’t be hurt like this, it was impossible—

Shadow’s beacon coming in was supposed to mean _reunion,_ sweet, eager kisses and tight hugs and awful jokes and they would be _together again_ after the brief time apart that was always so horrible, so lonely—

and he had to call for help, but his vocalizer spat static when he tried. He sent frantic ping after frantic ping out of his commlink without even consciously realizing—

he’d never seen Shadow so wounded that he even had to _limp_ what had _happened_ Blue should have _been there, could have stopped this—_

his hands were shaking Shadow was trying to reach for him he didn’t know what to do what could he do there was nothing _nothing what do I do—_

he was moving, driven by panic, scooping his beloved’s too-light frame (even with his gravitational abilities, he should never, _ever_ have been able to lift Shadow like this, so easily) into his arms. He could think of _nothing_ in his panic, nothing but fear and anger and how Shadow was sure to perish and how he should have prevented all this and it was a frantic echo in his mind that wouldn’t stop, but his frame moved with an urgency, an instinct. He ran.

And he ran.

And he stopped, and someone took Black Shadow from him.

A voice snapped through the fog, words he couldn’t _hear,_ and Blue Bacchus flinched. He whirled, tripped to his pedes to defend his conjunx from the threat—

Dezsarus grabbed him by the upper arms and hauled him aside. A pair of medics swooped in to stabilize Black Shadow. Dezsarus said something. His lips moved, but the sound was garbled in Blue Bacchus’ audials and then he was babbling, crying and hyperventilating that he didn’t know what happened and he didn’t know what to do and he wasn’t sure he was even making any sense through the tears and gasps and he wanted to _fragging destroy them, kill whoever did this, make the glitch suffer—_

Dezsarus crushed Blue Bacchus against his chest and held him there until he stopped thrashing and screaming and swearing. Until he passed out from the exhaustion.

* * *

Blue hugged his legs tightly against his chestplate and peeked between the tall fan plates adorning his knees. Black Shadow lay in recharge, finally peaceful. Even now, Blue couldn’t reconcile this broken mech with the one he devoted his life to. It was _wrong,_ to see his beloved injured this way, _hurting_ this way.

Whatever had happened… Although Black Shadow was nowhere near well enough to say, Blue Bacchus had already (several times, each time more viciously than the last) sworn revenge on whoever was responsible. Didn’t matter that whoever they were, they were tough enough to take down a phase sixer. Blue would find a way to ruin them, make them _hurt_ the way Shadow was.

The way _he_ was.

Frag, but he should have stopped this. He knew he couldn’t have, was too weak and fragile to do any damage against whatever, _whoever_ destroyed Shadow like this, but he still _should have stopped it._

For the umpteenth time, Blue Bacchus reached out to hold Black Shadow’s hand, held it as gently as though it was made of glass, and bit back tears.


End file.
